


honest, you do

by wardo_wedidit



Series: A Very Specific Series [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-12 09:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19567618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: “Okay, but that didn’t answer my question. Was it everything? There wasn’t anything you wish was different? Because I for one could have done without the story in Alexis’ toast about how I used to run my outfits by her for approval when you first started working at the store.”Or, a short little drabble about a soft moment on David and Patrick's wedding night.





	honest, you do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imbrokelyn99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrokelyn99/gifts).



> I know I just posted a fic yesterday, but then the lovely and talented [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrokelyn99/pseuds/imbrokelyn99) joked with me all, “oh haha you posted your fic one day before my birthday, thanks” and I was like “don’t test me, you beautiful soul, send me a prompt and I’ll write you a birthday drabble” and now here we are. This is what happens when I have two consecutive days off work, I just get carried away. My apologies.
> 
> Title from [Sam Cooke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qol952UDurQ).

“My god, a bed,” David exhales after they’ve tumbled through the door of their fancy hotel room, tossing their jackets onto a nearby chair. He really, really wants to get out of his suit, but more than that he wants to be horizontal—his feet are so fucking sore and he’s kind of starving, actually. 

He hears Patrick chuckle behind him as he follows David’s hand pulling them both to the mattress, which is showered in rose petals and chocolates wrapped in foil. There’s also a bucket of champagne sweating on the bedside table and David wonders if the towels are going to be wrapped in dove shapes when they go into the bathroom, the way they were in that other hotel when he braved the honeymoon suite with Stevie all that time ago. 

David toes his way out of his shoes as when they reach their destination, kicking them off impatiently. Patrick doesn’t even bother, flopping down onto the bed with exhaustion and groaning, stretching out and then curling up, his dress shoes actually touching the duvet in the process. David shrieks. 

“I’m sorry, were you raised in a barn?” he asks, moving to fumble with the laces himself, pulling the shoes off Patrick’s feet. “What is it with you and shoes, am I going to have to teach you what’s correct for the rest of our _married lives_ —” 

“Mm, sorry David, our what now? I don’t think I heard you,” Patrick asks, his face pretend-confused, and David squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, because he’s not being baited this way. It’s been such a long day, and he’s already cried too many times, said “I love you” more than he ever did in the rest of his life combined. On top of all that, there was the forty-five minute taxi ride to Elmdale, where it would have been rude to fall asleep and improper to fool around in the back, so that was just one more hurdle to get to the end of this long, wonderful day and relax. He will not be pushed any further. He needs to sleep and recharge before he can handle anything else, thanks. 

“I think you _did_ hear me,” he says in response, bratty, and when he opens his eyes Patrick is grinning so mischievously that it’s hard to take, so he tosses Patrick’s shoes very far away from the bed in retaliation. 

Patrick catches his hand as soon as its free and pulls him down too, so that they’re lying on their sides next to each other, curled in like parentheses. “Okay, David,” he says in that way that’s always so _knowing_ , the one David used to find really annoying when they were just getting to know each other. He doesn’t anymore, because now he knows Patrick says it when he’s fond of David even though he knows he shouldn’t be. He’s fond of David when he whines about sweeping the floors at the store, and when he’s grumpy in the morning because he’s still waking up, and when he accidentally says something too genuine, too honest about his feelings and gets embarrassed. Patrick’s indulgent and charmed by all of it, and he’s going to be that way for the rest of their lives, and David’s brain nearly short-circuits thinking about it. 

Luckily, Patrick isn’t in his head and can’t hear the truly embarrassing stream of thoughts running through his mind. He’s just fiddling with David’s rings, quiet and smiling and content, and David’s heart swells in his chest. 

He tucks his mouth to the side and bites the inside of his cheek, reaching forward to gently undo Patrick’s bowtie with careful fingers. 

“Are you happy?” Patrick asks softly, and David’s hands still. He’s fucking bowled over by the question, the casualness of it, and he must be looking at Patrick like he’s an idiot right now, because he laughs. “No, I mean—are you happy with the way it all went?”

“Oh,” he says, going to unbutton the top couple buttons of Patrick’s shirt before pulling his hands away. He looks absolutely delectable, tie hanging loosely around his neck, collarbone exposed. David wants to get in there with his teeth, mark him up, draw out all his little gasps and whimpers… though realistically, David thinks the more likely chain of events tonight is that once they’re out of these clothes, there will be some fumbly, lazy kissing until they’re both too tired to continue and fall asleep all tangled together. But if he’s being really honest with himself, he can’t complain. They had snuck into the back room of the town hall at one point when no one was looking during the reception to get off together, frantic and desperate to touch. 

He tilts his head a little, still thinking. “I feel like no one told me I would be so tired? And emotionally drained? And _hungry,_ ” he says decisively, eyebrows lifting up on that last one, and Patrick rolls his eyes affectionately. 

“I know, I promised you room service on the way over,” he admits long-sufferingly, sitting up on the bed and scooching over to the little bedside table, rummaging around in the drawer for the menu. He squints down at it, and then at the little alarm clock, and then back down. “The kitchen’s still open, but you’ll have to decide faster than usual,” he says, and David loves him. He loves his practical, capable husband so, so much. 

He bites down on a smile and sits up too, facing Patrick, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth a little bit. He feels the way he did when they first started dating, almost. Like he was so utterly intoxicated by Patrick that the only thing he could do to process it was hide under his covers at the motel and kick his feet and flail a little bit. Stevie caught him once and it was utterly embarrassing. 

“What about you?” he asks, and Patrick looks up at him quizzically, like he’s lost the train of this conversation. “Are you happy with everything? Was it everything you imagined?” he says, voice breathy and ridiculous on the last part. Like it’s a joke, like he’s not actually dying to know. 

Patrick glances over at him for a second and grins before flicking his eyes back down. The overcome, just-for-David smile stays put, though. “It was the best day of my life, David,” he shrugs, as if that’s something people can just say so easily. But god, Patrick does, he’s a person who says that kind of thing without a second thought and he married _David_. 

The sincerity is nearly too much. David scoots closer so he can bump their shoulders together. “Okay, but that didn’t answer my question. Was it _everything?_ There wasn’t anything you wish was different? Because I for one could have done without the story in Alexis’ toast about how I used to run my outfits by her for approval when you first started working at the store.” 

Patrick’s smile blooms slowly over his features. He bumps David’s shoulder back. “I hadn’t heard that one before,” he says softly, and okay then, David guesses it can stay. 

“There is one thing,” he says, his voice going thoughtful, and David straightens a little bit at the words. 

“What?”

Patrick picks up his phone, fiddling with it. “There was just one song I wanted them to play that they didn’t, for whatever reason.” 

David groans, rolling his eyes. “If this is Tina Turner, I swear—thank _fuck_ I put the fear of god in that DJ to only play it one time or else suffer a slow and painful death; Stevie told me Roland requested it _nine times_ —” 

But it isn’t. The smooth voice of Sam Cooke fills the room and cuts him off, and David catches his breath as Patrick stands, reaching a hand out to David, which he takes. He winds his arms around David’s waist as they start to sway, the bass and the guitar and the drums echoing around them. 

Patrick’s eyes are molten and bright, an intimate little smile on his lips as he looks at David so closely that he has to press their temples together for a second, let out a long breath to try and loosen the tight knot of emotion in his throat. Patrick gives his back a little squeeze like he knows, like he can tell how overcome David is by all of this.

He feels so warm, dancing in a hotel room in Elmdale with his brand-new husband. It’s never a moment he would have pictured, for the night of his wedding, instead, feels closer to a dream: both of them circling around slowly in socked feet, something about it so tender and silly and delicate. After this, they’re going to order entirely too much food and gorge themselves while they rehash all the little details of the wedding they haven’t had a chance to discuss together yet. Tomorrow morning, they’re getting on a plane to Montreal, and David has visions of Patrick holding his hand and feeding him pastries as they walk around the city. And he’s going to have Patrick the day after that, the year after that, the decade after that. A lifetime. 

Patrick sings along when the words _to marry you and take you home_ come out of the little smartphone speakers, and David pulls back to kiss him, soft and grateful. 

_You send me, Patrick Brewer,_ he thinks fervently in his heart, the words swirling through his blood in gorgeous, ethereal curls. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into the small space between them instead, and Patrick looks at him like the first time he ever said it, like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, and David is so glad he could help give him this little moment he’d dreamed of, wished for. 

“So much, David,” Patrick murmurs back, the rest of the words obvious, before giving him a slow, perfect kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading as always! You can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wardowedidit) to encourage all my writing impulses. :)


End file.
